A lighthouse at the end of a long day, if you have five quiet minutes — for a night when you do not want to think

The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges.

There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your hands be completely still.

A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.

Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel your cheeks let go.

Let the next part go past without you. They will find their own way out.

Leave it there. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Nothing here needs following closely.

Five quiet minutes is enough. Ten is generous.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.